


Try To Hold On Tight Tonight

by waltzmatildah



Category: Chicago Fire, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non Consensual Bloodplay, non consensual blood feeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a bar in Chicago, Kelly questions his resolve and – for a little while, anyway – himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try To Hold On Tight Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Could I Be Anything You Want Me to Be?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/591855) by [citron_presse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_presse/pseuds/citron_presse). 



  
_wanna burn skin  
and brand what once was mine…_

-

He drags his sleeve up and glances at his watch. Calculates how many more minutes he needs to put in before he can leave without raising too many eyebrows. It’s too hot inside the bar, too crowded and too noisy and _too much_. The pills he’d hastily swallowed just after lunch have worn off to the point that every movement causes something in his neck to catch, leaving him momentarily breathless, but he’s down to rationing his stash and can’t afford to pop anymore before tomorrow and the start of his next shift.

He takes up a position at the bar, half cradles his right arm in his lap and wonders how many drinks he’ll have to get through before he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Figures he may as well start with a scotch.

“Double,” he adds, tries to make it sound like an afterthought, as though maybe oblivion hasn’t been his intention all along.

He shifts on the stool and a dart of agony pierces through to his elbow. He flinches into the pulse, can’t quite school his features quickly enough to hide it and uses the fingers on his left hand to work at the muscles in his shoulder briefly.

_Shit._

The pain is making him dizzy. Nauseas. 

His drink arrives and he’s not quite through thanking the bartender when Shay appears.

“Should you be-”

“It’s fine,” he says. Cuts her off with a frown and follows it quickly with an irritated, “ _I’m_ fine.” Punctuates the words by snatching at the tumbler of liquor and downing the lot in one go. Just because he can.

And with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. Just to piss her off.

Just to make her go away.

_Please Shay, please. Just leave me alone…_

It works because as he dumps the glass back onto the damp bar runner she’s shaking her head at him, eyes narrowed, furious.

“You’re an ass.”

But she walks away in the end and that’s enough for now.

 

 

 

He’s not sure if it’s the still lingering shock of pain from where he’d tipped his head back to drink and prove his point to Shay, or if it’s the sudden rush of alcohol into his already overworked bloodstream but the nausea he’d noted earlier ramps up a notch as the room does a slow spin. He gets his elbows up on the bar in time to catch his head in his hands. Hopes he doesn’t look as near to unconsciousness as he feels as his eyes slide closed and stay that way for a beat or two too long to be anything other than _fucked up_.

He forces air into his lungs desperately. Lifts his head again and is relieved to find the dizziness has subsided to a level that is manageable.

For the most part.

He studies the bottles lined up on the mirrored shelves behind the bar, watches his own distorted reflection as a face he barely recognises anymore blinks back at him from between the brightly coloured bottles.

“Is this seat taken?” he hears, the voice coming to him through several layers of viscous air, muted and surreal.

He turns his head. Slowly. Half expects the fractured pieces of his neck to crunch apart as he lifts his gaze, tries to focus.

“Yeah… no… uh…” He blinks and his eyes struggle to adjust to the change. Dark, bright, dark. Back to bright. He waves his hand in the direction of the stool to buy himself some time. “Be my…”

He sees her curls then, dark, almost but not quite black. Red lips rounded into a smile he thinks he could get lost in. Feels his own stretch into something of a mirrored image.

“Hey.”

Her grin widens, and she does this little shimmy with her shoulders that sends an inexplicable shiver up his spine as she replies, “Hey yourself.”

 

 

 

She says her name is Katherine.

They end up in her hotel room. And despite adamant intentions to the contrary, he finds himself answering every one of her earnestly worded questions with nothing but the truth. 

She takes his clothes off slowly. Undressing him as she speaks.

As he answers.

“I’m a fire-fighter,” he says, can’t help but relish in the pride infused fiercely through those words as he speaks them. 

The fear that it’s fast becoming a lie.

And the fact that maybe it already is.

She shifts gears then. Leans her palms into his chest and pushes until he’s flat on the bed. Stares at him, spreadeagled and mostly naked, for a beat longer than is entirely comfortable before straddling him on all fours, mostly naked herself. 

It’s different, he thinks, this time. Different to Anna, different to Corinne. _Cleaner_ perhaps, but he can’t quite fathom in what way.

 

 

 

He wakes twisted beneath her the next morning, his right shoulder screaming to a degree he knows he’ll never hide. He wants nothing more than to curl into himself and sleep forever.

Exhausted through to his hollowed out core, he hasn’t even climbed out of bed yet.

She’s watching him through lashes still mostly closed, but when her lips part he knows she’s missed nothing.

“What happened to you, Kelly?” she says; her words heavy in a way that catches him completely off guard.

“My neck’s broken,” he answers, candid for once and with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal.

Nothing to see here.

Nothing but horror and dread and a ripe agony that reaches all the way to his toes.

“Let’s fuck again,” he says.

They do.

She rolls over and onto him, twines her legs between his and doesn’t stop until she’s weighing him down. Sliding one hand in between them both, she’s finger-fucking herself before he can register what her movements are, grinding against him until he’s hard. She replaces her hand with his dick, fills herself with him and sits up and does all the work, like she knows exactly what it is she wants.

Like maybe this, like maybe _he_ , is it.

 

 

 

She’s trailing her nails down the length of his right arm afterwards, the silence between them, comfortable, and he thinks, absurdly, perhaps they knew each other so completely in a past life that they no longer need sound to communicate.

He breaks the quiet with another admission. Testing the waters of what it feels like to say the words out loud.

“My best friend died,” he says. Shuts his eyes and waits for the hammering in his chest to re-settle before… “I may have killed him.”

He thinks he wants to shock her.

Maybe he just wants to shock himself.

It’s getting harder and harder to tell.

She lifts her chin, doesn’t speak, presses her lips to his, quickly, softly.

Blink and you’ll miss it.

She’s gone then. Her warmth replaced by cool morning air, the echoed sounds of the shower.

And so he sleeps.

 

 

 

 

When he wakes she standing at the foot of the bed. Staring. She’s naked again.

She’s naked _still_.

Her hair, dripping ringlets that stretch almost to the curve of her hips. She is stunning and she knows it. Wears her beauty like a cloak, comfortable and nonchalant.

“You wanna try something kinky?” She smiles, wicked, like she already knows he’s going to say _fuck, yes…_ , before she lifts one arm to her mouth, pulls back her lips and raises one eyebrow, then…

“Fuck!” He sits up fast, too fast, crab crawls backwards and across the bed before he can really figure out why.

And what.

And _how the…_

“Katherine, that’s fucked!”

She shakes her head, beads of water flick from the dark tendrils, mesmerising. “It’s fine,” she breathes.

And she’s right. It is. Or it will be. He knows this suddenly. _Instinctively_.

“It’s delicious,” she continues, moving further towards him, “You’re gonna like it, I promise.”

There’s blood leaking to her elbow. The sight of it, _red_ , like a dream that doesn’t quite make sense. He almost doesn’t want it to.

“Taste me,” she says. And he does. He’d do anything she asked of him, he knows that now for a fact. He runs his tongue across his lips, his heartbeat doing some double time marching beat in his chest.

He thinks he might be high.

Again.

She tastes like honey. And he drinks. And he doesn’t stop to give in to the screaming that says _don’t_ and _no_ and _you’re freaking me the fuck out…_

He can no longer hear that voice.

 

 

 

He wakes. The space at his back is empty, hollow, cold and he shivers then, blinks, opens his eyes. He feels light, weightless, as though his insides have been torn out, replaced by helium and nitrogen and air. His neck aches, but it’s a dull memory more than anything and the agony he remembers from not hours earlier has all but evaporated.

When he closes his eyes he sees curls and lips and legs forever. Teeth, sharp, and the black-red of her blood, flowing.

“Katherine.” 

The sound of her name crowds the light-filled spaces in his head. 

The thinks he should have questions for her, but he can’t come up with any. He thinks he should be horrified, but he’s not even close.

He remembers her words, as clear as day. _It’s fine…_ she’d said.

And it is.


End file.
